


Two Years

by commodorecliche



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Best Friends, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Reunions, Romance, Separations, Soulmates, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 20:39:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4194147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche/pseuds/commodorecliche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for a fic prompt by an anonymous user. </p>
<p>You can find the original post: <a href="http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com/post/122219495663/hate-you-still-taking-prompts-how-about-where">HERE</a>. Likes/reblogs appreciated.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Two Years

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a fic prompt by an anonymous user. 
> 
> You can find the original post: [HERE](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com/post/122219495663/hate-you-still-taking-prompts-how-about-where). Likes/reblogs appreciated.

When Jean enlisted, I was fairly certain it was the end of our friendship. Despite the years of history we had, despite the fact that I begged him not to, nothing could change his mind. And who was I to demand he stay? After all, it was his life, not mine, and whatever choices he made were his alone.

He enlisted the day after our high school graduation, and maybe it was selfish that I cried when he’d told me. Maybe it was selfish that I asked him one more time to  _please_  reconsider, even though the paperwork was already signed. Maybe it was selfish that I had hoped he would stay so that maybe he and I could have figured ourselves out together – because whatever we were, we weren’t meant to be apart.

But that was then, and what was done, was done.

Jean went off to Basic two states over and I went on with my life, because no matter how much it hurts, it’s what you have to do. I missed him, of course, but we still talked. He’d call or text, just to keep me updated or simply to say a brief hello.

He never said he missed me, but then again, neither did I. Maybe we didn’t have to, because when we talked, the way his voice would trail off when he had to say goodbye told me enough. I ended every call with “Bye, Jean. Call me soon. And stay safe.” and hoped he understood.

I hadn’t cried other than when he first told me he had enlisted. I hadn’t shed a single tear, because he was only two states over, and that isn’t too far when you can still hear the other person’s voice from time to time.

I only cried again when he sent me a lone text message to say his unit was going to be deployed.

I didn’t ask him to stay, I didn’t tell him to come home, and I didn’t tell him I missed him. Because what was the point? 

So I told him what I always told him. “Bye, Jean… Please, call me soon. And stay safe.” and hoped he understood.

The night before he was set to ship out, he called me. I hadn’t heard his voice for a while and it was meeker than it had been in our previous calls. He spoke, though, as if all was well, despite the cracks in his tone, and I tried to return the calm illusion of normalcy as best I could. I told him about school, and how our friends were doing, and when the call wound down, I was ready to tell him goodbye. I was ready to let him go – to let him be a soldier, to be the strong person he was always cut out to be.

But he wasn’t ready.

As the call ended, he didn’t say goodbye. Instead, he said,

“I’m scared, Marco.”

I told him that I was too, but that I would be here when he got back.

“ _Please_ , stay safe…” I begged him, and hoped he understood.

I didn’t say goodbye, and neither did he.

**::**

Once Jean deployed, I didn’t really hear from him anymore. Probably to be expected, though. Communications in a warzone can be spotty at best, and perhaps it made it easier for him. I’d like to say it made it easier for me, too, and maybe it did. If it did ease the stress, though, it wasn’t by much.

Four months into his deployment found me staring at my phone, constantly opening his contact and typing messages I didn’t want to send.

Six months into his deployment, I texted him.

_“I miss you.”_

Eight months into his deployment, I got an email from a military address I didn’t recognize.

_“I miss you, too.”_

Nine months in, I texted him one more time, and told him simply,

“Come home safe.” and hoped he understood.

Eleven months after Jean deployed, he finally replied.

“I’ll be touching down at the airport tomorrow at 11 pm.”

I didn’t call, even though I wanted to. But I texted him and told him I would be there.

**::**

Sitting in the airport at 10 o’clock – because I’d always rather be early than late – I watched with anticipation as the throngs of people crept by and by. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I saw him. Coming down the escalator was a familiar figure dressed in camouflage, with a bag slung over his shoulder. He looked different, but not much so. A little broader in the chest and shoulders, hair cut shorter on top than when I’d last seen him, face tanned from the sun.

But it was still Jean.

I stood quickly, ready to greet him, stomach turning over inside myself, and I wondered if he felt the same. Jean, with his eyes focused down at his feet, inched his way down to my floor, until finally, those beige combat boots stepped off the escalator and onto the ground. He glanced up and scanned the room before finally settling his eyes on me.

He didn’t smile – I remember that – not at first. At first, he simply stared, blocking the bottom of the escalator until someone had to shove past him just to get off. I took a few steps towards him, as he did to me, until finally we stood, face to face almost two years down the road.

“Hi.” Jean said, fingers suddenly gripping the handle of his bag a fraction more tightly.

“Hi…”

I’m not sure what inspired me – because two years sustaining on a couple of texts and phone calls is hardly enough for a friendship – but I couldn’t stop myself. With my hand on his shoulder, I dragged him forward, crushing him against me and wrapping my arms around him. His bag discarded, dropped to the floor, Jean’s arms steadily wound their way around my midsection.

I could feel his fingers as they curled into the fabric of my shirt, squeezing me tighter, and I thought that maybe this had been just as hard on him as it had been on me. And I thought that perhaps it was telling that it was me he’d asked to meet him – not his mother or father, not his brother – but me. I was the person he’d asked to see first upon returning home, and for a moment, I wondered if I looked different to him like he did to me.

With one more gentle squeeze, I eased my arms off of him. He relinquished me reluctantly, a small sigh on his breath as he did so. Gathering his bag back up, Jean gave me another look over, and I couldn’t help but notice the fluster of red that had built up on his cheeks.

Some things never change.

Jean smiled at me then. He smiled and sighed and shook his head with a chuckle.

“You… you got taller…” He stammered.

“And you got broader.” I told him, framing his shoulders with my hands.

“You look great, Marco…”

“So do you, Jean.”

Jean avoided my gaze, but smiled none the less, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him like this. I could barely remember the last time I’d  _really_ seen him smile. And my heart ached, because I had missed him so much.

But it fluttered too. Because after two years, the time apart felt like nothing now that he stood in front of me safe, alive, and real.

And as I looked at him, the thought crept into my head like a warm but fleeting breeze…

_I could kiss him._

My hands on his shoulders, staring at him after  _so_  long, I could kiss him.

And I wanted to.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I cocked my head and beckoned him to come with me, leading the two of us towards the airport parking lot.

**::**

Sitting in my car, we didn’t leave the airport right away. He hadn’t told me anywhere he wanted to go, and I wasn’t ready to simply pick him up and drop him right back off again somewhere else. Maybe it was selfish, but that’s something I’ve come to terms with. I wanted him with me for even just a singe moment longer.

The radio was playing a song I can’t remember while we sat in the darkened parking lot. His face was illuminated by the flickering fluorescent lights, and I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to take his hand and grip his neck, and kiss him and tell him to please never go away again.

I wanted to.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I told him,

“You’re quiet…”

As if I weren’t quiet too.

“I just…” He started, but stopped when he turned his head to look at me, “I missed you, Marco.”

“Me too…” I paused, my hand reaching down to clutch at the gear shift. “Did you want me to take you home?”

Jean shook his head slowly.

“No.”

“Does your family know you’re back?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay. We can relax at my place for a bit, if you want?”

Jean simply nodded, relaxing back into his seat a little bit. And from the corner of my eye, I swear I could still see that calm and fresh 18 year old that had left some two years ago. Because some things just don’t disappear, and that was fine with me.

**::**

Sat inside of my apartment, dressed down into more comfortable clothes, we talked.

We didn’t talk about everything – but it was enough. Soft words about life and what the other had missed, as if we’d only been apart for a summer and not two whole formative years. But it was okay.

Jean was quiet – as he rarely used to be – but his smile… his smile was the same. And when he beamed it at me through quiet giggles, I questioned how I ever thought that what we had could have broken because of something as silly as time apart. Sitting on my living room floor, shoulder to shoulder with my friend, I realized quickly that I had never been ready to let him go.

When I took his hand gently in the quiet, he hadn’t questioned it. And when I scooted closer, he’d allowed my closeness in kind. And when I craned my head over to him, he’d met me half-way with tentative lips and a breathy sigh.

Jean kissed me as if afraid that I might disappear, as if perhaps his two years away were enough to drive me away. Because whatever we were, it had never been defined, never named, never concrete or solidified. But when his muscles strained and lips quivered, I’d kissed him deep enough to tell him that undefined didn’t mean intangible or unreal. I cradled his jaw, covered his body with my own, if only to tell him that undefined didn’t mean insubstantial or insignificant.

There were things I wanted him to tell me and things I still wanted to tell him – pieces I think the two of us were waiting to fill in. The why’s, the how long’s, the gaps and holes from the years we spent apart that I was desperate to re-stitch and reclaim. But those were for another time, and the moments we had right then – the kisses, the touches, the gentle moans of things that were a long time in the making – in those moments, it seemed that all we had to do was pick up where we left off.

Because whatever we were, whatever we  _are_ , we were never meant to be apart.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading. 
> 
> Once again, you can find the original, rebloggable post [HERE](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com/post/122219495663/hate-you-still-taking-prompts-how-about-where) at my [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Any comments/reviews/critiques always welcomed!


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